ilemoirs; o! a fetoine 

OR, HOW IT FELT TO BE A 
PRISONER OF WAR 



<By BEN MUSE 







^ 



■4 '^ 



The Author and an English Fellow-T'nsoner, from 'T'hotograph 

Taken Three iMonths 'before the Armistice. The Author is 

Wearing an Old French Uniform With Which he was 

Fitted Out After %unning Away and Losing his 

Regulation T'rison CoHume 



We 

MEMOIRS OF A SWINE IN THE 
LAND OF KULTUR 

OR 

HOW IT FELT TO BE 
A PRISONER OF WAR 



<By BEN MUSE 

36926 Lance-Corporal 11th King's 
Royal Rifles 



TnVe 50 Cents 



^t'-^' 

.(3^ 



Copyright, 1919 

BY 

be;n muse 



'CI. A 5 3 3 2 3 THESEEMAN PRINTERY, DURHAM, N. C. 



JUL 24 1919 
/v. r ! 



PREFACE 

The following narrative tells of the adventures of an Am- 
erican boy in German imprisonment from his capture No- 
vember 30, 1917, to his release December 9, 1918. The au- 
thor is a native of Durham, N. C, and a student of Trinity 
College, who went over and joined the English forces before 
America's entry into the war, serving in the Eleventh King's 
Royal Rifles six months and going through the severe fighting 
around Ypres and Cambrai before his capture. 



The Memoirs of a Swine in the Land of Kultur 
or, How it Felt to be a Prisoner of War 



CHAPTER I 
Capture 

I was bandaging poor Sergeant Sharpy's wounds. 

"It's all up with us, Muse," he said. 

I feared that it was all up with him, at any rate, as I 
clumsily tried to stop the torrent of blood which was flowing 
from his head and shoulders. 

It was after an hour of one of those hells such as only 
soldiers of the line can understand, when death and suffering 
were everywhere and survival seemed the rare and lucky ex- 
ception. The machine gun corporal on my left had died at his 
gun, and the contorted body of my good old mate, "Wally," 
blocked the view farther down the trench. On my right the 
three survivors of my section were still firing furiously over 
the parapet. 

Personally I had not suffered from the barrage beyond the 
interruption of my preparation for breakfast. The biscuits 
and jam and chocolate lay spread on the edge of my "hole," 
and the canteen of tea-water over my boot-dubbin fire stead- 
ily refused to boil. I left the wounded sergeant to look over 
the top. The mass of running grey uniforms was now very 
near us.. I could see the flags which they carried and hear the 
roar of "Hurrahs" between the bursting of shells. 

But who were those brown, unarmed figures running over 
on our left? My God! They were our own chaps — already 
captured! I glanced quickly around. The Germans were at 
our rear! The little hill behind us was dotted with the grey 
figures, and those flags could be seen in every direction. 

"They're all around ," but ere I could finish they were 

on us. A shower of hand grenades and then "Fritz" himself. 



6 Th:^ Mejmoirs of a Swinh; or 

"Hurra ! Hurra ! 'Raus ! 'Raus !" and shaking with excite- 
ment they shoved their bayonets in my face. 

I laid down my rifle and began undoing my equipment. 

I helped the sergeant over the top, snatched up a bag of 
biscuits, took a last fond look at my tea-water — now begin- 
ning to boil ! — and scrambled over after him. 



CHAPTER II 
In Conquered France 

The journey to our camp in Germany will be remembered 
by most of my comrades only as a hungry nightmare, inter- 
rupted at long intervals by bowls of unsatisfying German 
soup. Those of us who had enough biscuits to keep from 
suffering found it an interesting opportunity to see the Ger- 
mans behind their lines and the Hfe of the French under Ger- 
man rule. 

The latter were splendid to us. In every town or village 
through which we passed, they turned out in crowds to do us 
honor. Girls smiled sympathetically and old women cried. 
Cheering was, of course, verboten. 

In one small village an old French gentleman came out 
into the street and raised his tall silk hat to us. Instinctively 
the boys in the front of our column responded with a salute, 
and their example was followed by each section of fours in 
its turn, as they marched past. Three or four German 
officers came up, cursing and shaking their fists to drive the 
old man away, but he remained defiantly bare-headed and mo- 
tionless until the last of his country's allies had filed past. 

The French would gladly have relieved our hunger, too, 
from their own slim stores, had it been possible. As it was 
they smuggled food to us at every opportunity. The front files 
often found loaves of bread and sandwiches on the sidewalks, 
placed there hurriedly by the French women on seeing us 
coming. Bits of food as well as warm caps and sometimes 
jackets were thrown down to us from the second story win- 
dows. French girls ran out of their houses to bring us food 
and drink, in laughing defiance of cursing Landsturmers — and 
dashed away again. 

It was everywhere evident that, for all our unwashed faces 
and muddy and ragged uniforms we were, after all, their 
friends, and those other flashy soldiers who swaggered about 
their streets and into their shops and homes, were their eternal 
enemies. 



8 The Memoirs of a Swine or 

One of the pictures from that journey which remains 
clearest in my memory is that of the second night of captivity, 
standing before the Cathedral of Le Quesnoy. The edifice 
loomed beautiful before us in the mellow moonlight and re- 
flected a feeling of peace and reverence in us warriors fresh 
from the trenches. Three women, dressed in black, came out 
of the door just as the front of our column marched into the 
yard. They stopped, horror-struck, when they saw us there. 
Would they quarter us in the Cathedral? One of them hur- 
ried away to find the cure. The other two approached the 
officer in charge of us and protested in French. Barking out 
words of brutal German and pushing the ladies aside, the 
officer walked on toward the door. 

The first lady had now returned with the reverend father. 
Very calmly he attempted to prevent this desecration, but the 
only result was to exhaust the patience of the vandal officer. 
Finally he seized the cure by the shoulders and pushed him 
down the steps. Then, turning to the prisoners: 

"Marsch!" he rasped. 

The cure bowed his head and walked away, followed by 
the three weeping ladies and the hordes of prisoners and 
guards crowded slowly into the Cathedral. 



CHAPTER III 
Beggars 

A prisoner of war camp had many characteristics in com- 
mon with other communities of human beings. It had its so- 
cial classes, its great and its humble citizens, its rich and its 
poor. In arriving in camp I was fortunate enough to meet a 
friend, a Frenchman, with three years service in captivity 
and an ample stock of provisions. He "adopted" me. The 
fate of my eight hundred comrades, however, was pitiful. 
Finding practically nothing in the Help Committee's stores 
and being as yet without help from England, they were forced 
to subsist on the German ration which was scarcely enough 
to keep a man on his feet. The usual results of hunger set in, 
and I saw these poor fellows sink into shabby, hungry, beg- 
ging wanderers about the camp. 

My friend M was one of the most important men 

in the camp. He was intimate with all the bureau clerks, 
Unteroffisiere, interpreters, "good" sentries, and other per- 
sons worth knowing. He lived with three French sous-offi- 
cers in a comfortably furnished or "fixed up" Kleines Zimmer, 
They had everything that friends could send them in parcels, 
and wanted for nothing but liberty and — happiness. 

I had just finished a good breakfast of bacon and toast 
and cocoa, prepared by the Italian "batman" and was stand- 
ing before the windows enjoying a cigar with M . The 

door was bolted against beggars who knocked incessantly 
from early morning till late at night. 

I heard a shuffling outside and a timid tapping on the door. 
a pause and another tap ; a longer pause, and then a shuffling 
away. 

"Un it alien," observed M , still gazing out the win- 
dow. Another visitor walked up, thumped once on the door, 
and walked away again, almost without pausing. 

"Un anglais. You can always tell." 

"Rotten cigars," he continued, dismissing the subject of 



10 The; Me;moirs o? a SwiNii or 

the poor fellows who had gone away from the door, "but you'll 
have a chance to try a real one when Louis comes in. He has 
a box of Perfectos stuck away somewhere. What? Still 
worrying about our unadmitted visitors?" 

I was. I was wondering if that last chap was one of my 
battalion. How could M take it so coolly ? 

"If you stay long in the camps," he went on sagely, "you'll 
learn that you can't afford to weep everytime you see a hun- 
gry man. We wept for ourselves in 1914, and afterwards we 
wept a lot for other chaps, but when one's been in the midst 
of suffering men for three years, one learns to keep from 
thinking about it — or else one would go mad. We give them 
what we can spare and then try to think of something else." 



CHAPTER IV 

La Glorieuse Artnee Britannique 

The scene on which we gazed through the window was a 
typical one for a prison camp. The path along the barbed 
wire formed a sort of wretched promenade along which the 
sufficiently nourished took their constitutionals. A few Eng- 
lish sergeants, two bearded French ajutants, and a group of 
vivacious young Russian officiers aspirants were pacing mo- 
notonously back and forth as one does on board ship. 

"Pane!^ Pane, Kamarad!" 

A few Italians had suddenly appeared from across the 
corner. I was astonished at their youth. Two of them were 
but children with blue eyes and pretty girlish faces. 

"Fourteen years old, the one with the handkerchief around 

his neck," explained M . "The other is fifteen. They 

were claimed to have been helping the Italian Army and so 
were brought here along with the soldiers." 

"Pane! Brot!"^ they persisted. I chucked them a handful 
of biscuits. 

"No ! No !" remonstrated M . "You'll fetch the whole 

tribe of them." 

His words were not long in coming true. A few stray 
Italians had seen the incident and were already coming for 
their share. 

"Pane! Pane! Buono compagno!^ Pane!" 

A crowd quickly gathered around the window. 

"Alles! Allez! Macaroni, Garibaldi, Sacramento, alles!" 
and he tried vainly to wave them back. 

"Pane, pane!" They were reaching their arms through 
the windows now. The Frenchman pushed their arms back 
and closed the window. 

Presently another rabble appeared, a working party of two 
or three hundred starving men, urged on by cursing sentries. 



^ Italian : Bread. 

* German : Bread. 

' Italian : Good comrade. 



12 The; Memoirs oe' a Swine; or 

Slowly and listlessly they straggled by, hobbling painfully, 
most of them in their wooden "clogs." (Boots and puttees 
had long gone for food.) Many of them were of my battalion 
and company, but they were so altered that it took a moment's 
study to recognize them. There was the smart young bat- 
talion clerk, a well-paid accountant in civilian life, plodding 
along like a broken old man, with a full beard and a shabby 
costume of German and Russian cast-off clothes. There was 
"Smiley," the company barber, never known to be out of 
humor. The smile still lingered on his pale features, but his 
jokes were lost on his saddened comrades. All had the hope- 
less, dejected look of constantly hungry men. 

We watched the poor fellows until the last of the "rear 
guard" had hobbled past. 

"La glorieuse Armee Britannique !" observed M . I 

looked to see if he was smiling; but he wasn't. He meant no 
sarcasm. 

I will leave the first wretched months of captivity — which 
I like neither to remember nor to recall to other erstwhile 
Gefangener — for that simple, more tolerable life which most 
of us found on the German farms. 

It was the night after my first day's work on a farm, way 
up in the village of Kossebade, Grand Duchy of Mecklenburg. 
I lay nestled in a soft feather bed, for the first time in many 
months, thinking over the events of the past month and sum- 
ming up the extent of my good luck. 

I had found the people of the household, at first hand, to 
be reasonable creatures and I couldn't grumble at the hardness 
of the work. I was particularly astonished at the five meals 
of substantial food a day! 

I thought, too, of the men captured with me and how much 
worse they must be faring. Three hundred of them, I knew, 
had gone to Lille to work behind the German line. I had 
stood at the camp gate to bid them boodbye as they marched 
away, for I knew them almost to a man. Poor fellows, still 
without help from England, they hobbled away in their rags 
and "clogs," and tattered uniforms (in the middle of January) 



How It Felt to be; a Prisone;r oi^ War 



13 



with their three sHces of bread for a two days' journey, in one 
hand. 

But could I believe my ears ! They were singing ! — for 
Tommy always sings when breaking camp — "Here We Are, 
Here We Are, Here We Are Again," it was, and they sang it 
right lustily. 

I thought less painfully of the comrades which I had left 
in my last camp — ^my room-mates, Fred, Charley and Jack. 
I wondered if Jack was still "cleaning up" at pontoon, if Fred 
was getting his parcels again, and if Charley was still making 
those famous "burgoo" puddings. 

At last my thoughts drifted inevitably across the sea and 
home, and I dreamt of home afterward. Indeed, the next 
morning I could not tell where my thoughts had left off and 
my dream had begun. 




CHAPTER V 
My First Hardship 

There were two girls on the place, Miga, the farmer's 
daughter, and Erna, the milkmaid. The latter, a big, muscular, 
typically German peasant girl, took it upon herself to be my 
special guardian and tutor in the art of agriculture, and came 
to play no less a part in my life than that of my Woman of 
Destiny and Chief Tormentor. 

Of course, I had told the Unteroffizier* that I could farm — 
for farming was certainly better than mining or munitions 
making — but, as a matter of fact, beyond the items that horses 
ate hay and cows gave milk, and a general hazy idea that 
there was a lot of digging attached to it, I knew nothing 
about it. 

So my tutor had plenty to do — and she did it quite thor- 
oughly. Aside from her formidable physique, she had a tone 
of command which could but strike awe in a new and un- 
sophisticated Gefangener. 

My greenness she found most uproariously funny, and she 
gave me every opportunity to exhibit it. I was put on all of 
those delightful tasks which are especially reserved for green- 
horns, such as chasing the pigs, leading the cows to the village 
bull, putting the halter on an uncatchable colt in the pasture, 
or lifting a board which was nailed down. 

But I made display of enough of my ignorance without 
these special inducements. One day I think I made a blunder 
of quite everything which was given me to do. Besides such 
minor offences as putting the wrong harness on the horse and 
tying the cows in the wrong stalls, I spilled a sack of oats, 
broke a window-pane in the barn and buried a young turkey 
beneath a fork- full of manure — all in one day ! At first Erna 
scolded sharply, but finding me quite hopeless, she seemed 
finally to give me up and simply trust to luck that I would 
leave the house standing and some of the stock alive at the 



* German non-commissioned officer. 



How It Fe;lt to be a Prisoner op War 15 

end of this "perfect day." She did, however, regard me with 
such a horribly disgusted look that, had I not been so "fed 
up" and disgusted myself, I would have had grave misgiv- 
ings for my future. 

At all events I was convinced that after the failure I had 
made of the day's work, they would not call me in for supper 
that evening. Indeed, I would fain have gone to rest without 
that unearned repast. It didn't matter what I did or what 
they said, I told myself, they were only Germans, and I wasn't 
hungry anyhow. With this intent I was walking shame- 
facedly through the kitchen to my cell when Erna swept in. 

"Where are you going?" she demanded, seizing me by the 
collar. "Supper!" she roared, as she pulled me into the din- 
ing room. 

The family had already eaten, so I was left to eat with 
my tormentor. The table was spread for the first time with 
a white table-cloth, for they had evidently had guests. She 
sat down directly opposite me, and only once was the silence 
broken. 

"Don't soil the table-cloth," she commanded, pointing 
threateningly with her fork. 

It stirred my blood a bit to think of this creature lecturing 
me on table-manners. 

"I've eaten off more white table-cloths than you," I re- 
torted bravely, fumbling at my fork in defence. 

She took this sally with contemptuous silence, which con- 
tinued, with dark and threatening glances until we finished 
supper. She finished first. There was a dreadful pause, then 
she got up and sat down beside me ! 

I watched her with suspicious alarm. I moved a few inches 
along the bench and fumbled again at my fork. Then it 
came — all of a sudden. She threw her arms around me and 
kissed me ! 

"Ydu poor little English fool!" she said. 



CHAPTER VI 
The Day of Rest 

Sunday came and I was overjoyed to learn that it was 
observed even in Germany. I was feeding the cows when 
they told me the good news. I finished feeding them with 
enough haste to give them three kinds of indigestion and ran 
over to the next farm to see my mate, Albert, who had come 
to the village along with me. I located him by the strains of 
"Carry Me Back to Dear Old Blighty!" played on a mouth 
harmonica, and coming from the little room adjoining the cow 
stall. We greeted each other as though we had been separated 
for years. 

"Well, old boy, what do you think of it?" I asked. 

"All right, but blooming lonesome. Say, what would you 
have said to a bloke in '14 if he had told you you'd be a 
farmer's boy in Mecklenburg, Germany, today?" 

"I'd have said he was mad," I said laughing. "But I ex- 
pect we are lucky. It's better than digging trenches or mak- 
ing munitions for Fritz. Say, how's your grub? I can't go 
their black bread, can you?" 

"No, it's like eating straw, but they say we'll get used to 
it. Did you notice them eating jam on the meat and prunes 
with the spuds?" 

"Yes. Mad beggars, aren't they?" 

I thought of the two cigarettes which I had saved for us 
to smoke together and pulled them out. He grabbed one of 
them like a drowning man grabs a life-preserver, and lit it. 

"Here's a cigar for you," he said. "Cut it up and smoke 
it in your pipe. I can't go them. The boss gave it to me last 
night. He is the mayor of the village, you know, sort of a 
toff. Came in the stall, queer like, and says, 'Krieg' — that 
means war, don't it? — 'Krieg, nicht gut, Albert,' and he gives 
me this. 'Rauchen,'^ he says. I think he must have been 
drunk." 

" Smoke. 







I? 






K. -^ 









How It Felt to be a Prisoner oe War 17 

I told him about my own adventures, and we laughed to- 
gether. He had fared somewhat similarly, but he was a 
trained farmer and he got along more smoothly with the 
work. 

"I wonder what the boys in the bat would say if they 
could see me wringing out shirts with Gretchen!" he said 
laughing. 

"Or me sawing wood with Erna !" I added. 

"Al-1-bert! Al-1-bert!" came a voice from the house. 

"Well, that's breakfast," said Albert. "I'll be going in. 
Isn't it a game, eh?" 

"Aye," I agreed, "Ain't it a game ! So long !" 

"So long. See you after!" 

After breakfast we went out for a walk and visited the 
other prisoners in the village, especially the three other Eng- 
lishmen, and the two old Frenchmen who had been in the 
village since '14. The five Serbians formed a little group of 
their own and the Russians, some thirty-five in number, 
formed another. The latter had one Sunday pastime, 
Einundzwanzig . Month in and month out, some of them for 
two, three and four years, they followed this monotonous 
existence — six days of work and one of cards. 

From that day until the armistice, we seven Englishmen 
and French were fast friends, and every Sunday found us 
together. In the tavern, by the village pond, or seated on the 
manger in some cow stall, we talked and laughed and sang 
and longed for the Day of Deliverance to come. 



CHAPTER VII 

The Conquest of Erna 

As time went on I grew more adept as a farmer and 
bolder as my increased efficiency justified. Even Erna ceased 
to terrorize me. The latter relief dated from one morning in 
the cow stall when she exasperated me beyond all patience by 
her sneering denunciation of the "English swine." I an- 
swered her as neatly as I could, but my broken German only 
seemed to her the funnier, the more excited I became. It 
reached a climax when she punctuated her argument by pok- 
ing me in the face with the broom. I struck out blindly and 
hit her somewhere, for she fell screaming to the floor. I 
noted with satisfaction that I had given her a respectable clout 
on the nose. The skin was all broken, and presently it began 
to bleed. The blood frightened her into silence, and from 
the terrified way in which she stared at me, I believe she 
thought she was murdered. Indeed, I had some tremors my- 
self, and we were mutually pleased when she showed strength 
enough to get up on her feet. She walked feebly through the 
barn to the backyard to let her nose bleed. 

I sprinkled some sand over the blood on the floor in the 
meantime, and presently the little boy who worked on the place 
came in. 

"I think you've killed her," he observed solemnly, regard- 
ing me as one would a murderer waiting for execution. "She's 
bled about a liter ! They'll hang you !" 

Not particularly reassured by this cheering prediction, I 
paced back and forth in the stall, meditating on the conse- 
quences of the deed. If I must go to the gallows, I resolved 
to do it like a Sydney Carton or a Nathan Hale. I was trying 
to think of the German for "I regret only that I have but one 
life to give for my country," when I heard the familiar yell : 

"Pruhstiick-k-k!" That was breakfast. I went in, but no 
Erna appeared. I didn't see her all day long. Heavens! I 
thought, she hasn't vanished altogether? 



How It Felt to be a Prisoner oe War 19 

At last, at the supper table, I was put at ease. There, be- 
hind a huge plaster, I saw the face of my old tormentor again, 
tearful and subdued ; but, thank God, alive ! 

They did nothing to me for mashing Erna's nose. I ex- 
plained it to the sentry with a self-defence touch, and, as he 
did not like Brna himself, he let me off with a reprimand and 
the usual admonition: 

"Don't forget that you're a Gefangener!" 

I learned from this affair that, aside from the protection 
which a passing knowledge of German gave me, one could 
take a great many liberties with these simple country people, 
if one only made a bold face of it. On the other hand, the 
more one submitted to, the more one had to endure. I knew 
an Italian who had to work almost every Sunday, simply be- 
cause he consented to work the first Sunday. I also knew of 
several Russians who were imprisoned in pig-stalls and others 
who were kicked and cuffed and slashed with knives by the 
same sentries who guarded us and for smaller offenses than 
we were constantly committing, but — until my attempted es- 
cape — none of the Englishmen there were touched. 



CHAPTER VIII 
For the Name of Old England 

The one great pastime of the Mecklenburg peasants was 
arguing about the war with the prisoners. For us, it was im- 
possible to avoid it. We were placed there for the amusement 
of the natives as well as for toil, and neither the utter ignor- 
ance of the subject on the part of the German nor the ignor- 
ance of the native tongue on the part of the prisoner fur- 
nished any immunity. 

"England, nicht gut!" or "England kaput !"^ was the usual 
challenge. 

New prisoners often found their rebuttal limited to a 
simple, but vigorous, "Nay, nay, nay !"'^ 

Older prisoners with a greater flow of language would gal- 
lantly defend the name of old England in a tirade similar to 
the following: 

"Deutschland kaput! England nidht kaput! England hesser! 
J a! Ja! Englische Soldaten kommen immer fester! Passe mal 
auf. Immer fester!" 

At first I tried serious argument, but this fell on barren 
ground. They knew no facts and believed none which I as- 
serted. For my part, they thought it absurd that I should pre- 
tend to know anything about the subject which they did not 
know, — a Gefangener being a sort of benighted heathen. 

I sounded their ignorance, however, rather pointedly one 
evening. We were seated at the supper-table and I found 
myself hotly assailed not only by the five members of the 
household but a visiting aunt and uncle as well. 

"Germany is bigger than all the Allies put together," an- 
nounced Auntie. "I don't see what you all keep fighting for !" 

"What is the population of Germany?" I repeated. 

They did not quite hear me. 

"What is the population of Germany?" I repeated. 



' Beaten. 

* Mecklenburgish, Ne; German, Nein; English, No. 



How It Felt to Bt a Prisoner oif War 21 

I was looking at Auntie, but she was looking at somebody 
else and they were all looking about as though they had lost 
something. Then someone called on Mutter'^" to save the situ- 
ation. 

"Yes, Mutter knows !" they said. 

Mutter suddenly decided to go into the kitchen for some 
more potatoes, but she was trapped by Erna. 

"Tell him. Mutter" she urged. 

Mutter paused a moment and then : 

"Joachim can tell you all right when he comes on leave!" 
she exclaimed triumphantly as she went out of the door. 

The Central Powers were winning again. 

"Yes, and we've lots more hand grenades and things than 
you all!" gloated Auntie. 

"How many hand grenades?" I asked again statistically. 

"Oh, hundreds of them!" she replied. 

"Just how many soldiers have the Germans got?" I in- 
quired a few minutes later. 

It was Erna who volunteered to reply. 

"I know exactly. My brother told me and he's an Unter- 
offizier! We've six thousand and the English only three 
thousand ! Twice as many ! Why, he saw two hundred 
soldiers in one town !" 

This quite put the cap on it. It put an end, anyway, to any 
serious discussion of the matter on my part. But talk I must, 
and not wishing to see the name of England writhing in the 
dust, I tried to adopt myself to the peasant style of argument. 
About a month thereafter you might have found me enter- 
taining my German companions in the fields in this wise : 

"Ha, Ha! We laugh at the Germans in London! We 
spit on them — the monkeys! You're fine Kerls — you black 
bread eaters, you cherry-leaf smokers, you wooden-shoed pigs ! 
Wouldn't you look fine on the Paris boulevard in those? Was? 
Ach, we spit on the Germans ! Passe mat auf, die Bngldnder 
are coming, and they shoot — So — and the Germans will run — 
So — J a, you're schon dumm, you are !" 

^' Mother. 



CHAPTER IX 
The Russian Peace 

"Oh, Ben, have you seen the papers ?" asked Erna one day 
as I came in for Kaffeetrinken. "Peace has been declared ! — 
Peace !" 

'Wasr I asked, dumbfounded. 

"Peace! Peace has been declared! The Russians have 
made peace!" 

"Oh!" I sighed, my hopes dashed to the ground. "I've 
heard that before." 

"Ja, but it is true," corroborated Mutter. "It's real peace! 
It's the beginning of the end. It'll all be settled now in a 
few weeks ! Hostilities on the Eastern Front have ceased. 
There it is in the paper." 

She handed me the Rostocker Anseiger and they watched 
me while I read the story of the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk. 
They expected me to dance with glee at the joyous news and 
were keenly disappointed when I failed to share their elation. 

"Aren't you glad ?" asked Mutter, "It's peace ! Peace !" 

"No," I said. "It's war, worse war and more of it!" 

I read the paper with no little interest for the next few 
days, glowing and optimistic and especially conciliatory to- 
ward the vanquished Russians. The Russians were naturally 
clever and amiable people, who had simply been the unfortu- 
nate dupes of wicked England. The hand of friendship was 
again to be extended to the Slavonic brethren, and all ani- 
mosities inspired by the war were to be forgotten. Indeed, it 
severely pained the tender heart of the Germans that they 
had been compelled to kill so many Russians, and they fer- 
vently prayed that no misunderstanding would ever again 
arise between the great German and Russian races. 

No reference was made to the treatment of the Russian 
prisoners, for — ^there it stood in the treaty — they were to be 
"repatriated with all possible speed!" 

The helpless Russian Gefangener, however, already the 



How It FeIvT to be a Prisone;r op War 23 

most brutally treated of the prisoners, were from that day re- 
duced to a more abject and wretched slavery than ever before. 
Cut off from all outside help and with no government at home 
capable of protesting, they were absolutely at the mercy of 
their German masters. They were overworked and whipped 
or slashed or imprisoned whenever it pleased any particular 
German to do so. In the camps and on the big working 
Komandos, they begged, thieved, waited on the other prisoners 
for their food, or else — starved. 

The repatriation clause keenly interested the Russians in 
Kossebade. The evening after the news came they gathered 
in joyous groups in the village square and sang songs and 
congratulated one another. 

A German farmer saw me watching them. 

"Don't you wish England had made peace," he asked, "so 
you could go home, too !" 

For weeks afterward the Russians talked confidently of 
going home. "When are you going home?" was the usual 
greeting when we met one of them. 

"Don't know, but soon!" was the reply. 

Some months later I met my old neighbor, Ivan, now 
nearly four years in captivity. We were ploughing two ad- 
joining fields. 

"When are you going home, Ivan?" I asked jocularly. It 
was the first time that I had referred to it for a long time. 

"I don't know," he answered smiling sadly, "I think mine 
is a life sentence !" 

Wlien at last the armistice was signed and the French and 
Belgians and all the rest of us were leaving, poor old Ivan 
was still there, and so were his thirty-four comrades — still 
going wearily through the routine of toil for their German 
masters, and playing Binundsiuansig on Sundays ! The day 
of departure had passed into that realm of sweet, but distant 
hope to which the Millenium belongs. 



CHAPTER X 
German Lovers 

I was cleaning up in the stable one day when Miga rushed 
in with a telegram in her hand. 

"Ben, Ben!" she exclaimed, quaking with excitement. 
"Karl is coming today !" 

Who Karl was or what the matter had to do with me I 
couldn't imagine. "Where is Warner?" she asked. 

I told her, and she rushed out to find him. Evidently it 
was something which everybody had to know. I was inter- 
ested. I rather liked Miga. She had travelled a bit, and I put 
her down easily the most intelligent member of the household. 
But who was Karl? 

I soon had an opportunity of learning, for the boy August 
came in. 

"Don't you know," he said winking. "That's her beau !" 

In due course Karl arrived, a smart young sergeant from 
a Dragoon regiment. He spent two days with us and though he 
was almost constantly with Miga, he frequently found time 
to joke with me about the mud on the Somme, soldiers' fond- 
ness for beer, the capitalist bandits, et cetera ; giving me a cig- 
arette on each occasion. Like most soldiers from the front, 
he had less of the air of superiority toward prisoners of war 
than the civilians. He regarded the war as simply a rotten 
business for all parties concerned and avoided talking seri- 
ously on any topic. 

For Miga it was a happy two days. The night before his 
departure, he went out to say goodbye to some friends, and she 
broke into tears. 

"Silly, ain't it?" observed Erna to me grinning, as Miga 
went weeping to her bedroom. 

Miga drove with him to the station the next morning and 
we all turned out to see them off. 

"Give my regards to my brother," I said, "if you meet him 
on the Somme." 



How It Felt to be a Prisoner of War 25 

"Ja wohl!" he answered laughing, "I'll fetch him over to 
keep you company." 

He shook hands with everybody else and exchanged sa- 
lutes with me. We watched them drive away, and Mutter 
stood silently at the gate long after the trap had vanished in 
the distance. 

I saw no more of Miga after she returned until the next 
afternoon — she was confined to her bed with lovesickness. It 
was Kaffeetrinken time when she appeared again at the table. 
Her eyes were red and her cheeks were swollen. She ate in 
silence until the rest had left the table, and then waited to 
speak to me. 

"What makes you men fight?" she asked slowly, gazing 
out of the window. "Isn't it horrible!" 

"Ja/' I agreed, "Horrible beyond all words." 

"He might be killed ! How cruel the Engldnder must be 
to kill such boys as Karl. Don't you think it is cruel — cruel — 
cruel ? 

"War is cruel," I conceded. It was useless to start an 
argument. "But he's been through three years of it all right, 
so why are you worrying now? Besides, the war is bound 
to end soon," I added hopefully. 

"Why didn't you go and let him stay with me?" she de- 
manded, clutching at a childish idea. "You always say that 
you would rather be back there fighting than here. What 
horrible mistakes the lieher Gott makes ! Why don't you go 
and fight in his stead and send him back to me?" 

"I should hardly care to fight in his stead, Fraulein," I 
said. I could not give her any comfort so I arose and went 
out, leaving her staring blankly out of the window. 

She took me somewhat into her confidence after that, and 
often read me letters from Karl. The first letter found him 
at a reinforcement camp near Bruges. 

"Pray God he stops there," she said. 

But he didn't; for the end of March found him writing 
letters like this: "We have crossed the Marne! Peace and 
victory are in sight. We go forward with God!" 

"Isn't it noble !" Miga said. 



CHAPTER XI 
Free for Three Days 

At last one summer's evening they gathered around the 
supper table and Ben failed to appear. I would give worlds 
to have seen the expressions on their faces then, and on the 
sentry's later when he came and found no Bngldnder there 
to lock up. I had come to seem too permanent there! I 
was as much an institution on the place as the dog, Telo, or 
the broken pump. 

While they were making these rude discoveries I lay 
crouched on a bed of moss in a secluded dell in one of the 
grand duke's forests smoking my pipe and speculating as to 
whether another fortnight would find me in Denmark or in 
a German jail. I had just finished a good supper of bread, 
"bully," condensed milk, and dates from my box of English 
provisions and was resting a moment before going on. 

My linen collar wilted with perspiration and I threw it 
away, having plenty more in my bag to put on in the morning. 
I had spent most of the afternoon in putting together my 
civilian attire, for I had to escape from the village in my 
prisoner's garb. I carried patches of black cloth in my pock- 
ets, accurately cut out to fit the prisoner's stripes on my cap 
and trousers. These I sewed on in the midst of a rye field 
immediately I got clear of the village. My coat, I had found, 
would not admit of alteration, so I had contrived to get an- 
other. I walked into the little room adjoining the barn, 
belonging to Warner, the old care-taker, and selecting the 
best of the coats hanging there, a gay cream-colored creation, 
I put it on under my black one. Then I put two suits of my 
new Enghsh underwear in a parcel under his bed, for I did 
not care to steal from Warner. He had seen me thrash a 
German boy without reporting it and had befriended me on 
various occasions. On top of the parcel I scribbled a note : 



How It Fe;i,t to be: a Prisone;r oi^ War 27 

"De;ar Warner: 

"This underwear is in exchange for your coat which I 
must take with me. Danke schon. Auf Wiedersehen! 

Ben." 

I spent most of the time tramping, stopping when tired 
or when the view pleased me, for a rest, and sleeping in the 
middle of the day. I passed through numerous villages and 
towns whose names I usually learned from the mile-posts 
along the road. These were about ten feet high and at night 
I had to climb up them and hold my eyes close to the board 
to read the inscription. It was the first time I had spent the 
night outside of my cell for many months and I enjoyed 
the sight of the moon and the stars again. The long North 
German twilight was glorious, too, and I often lay on some 
hillside above the fields and meadows and villages, and 
watched it while I rested. 

I was seldom accosted. I nearly ran into an old gentle- 
man in a forest on one occasion, however. He was a thin, aca- 
demic-looking old chap, wearing classes and a frock coat, 
and carrying a cane. What brought him to the forest at 
that unseemly hour I have never been able to imagine. It 
was just after midnight and the darkness was so dense that 
we could neither of us see the other until we were within a 
few inches proximity, and the mossy earth so effectually con- 
cealed the sound of our foosteps that we narrowly averted a 
collision. 

" D onnerwetter l""^^ he screamed in a squeaky voice, throw- 
ing up his hands and dropping his cane. 

I was startled too, but finding him quite harmless, I bade 
him: "Guten Abend l'"^" and, laughing, walked on. 

Everywhere through this farming country I saw prisoners 
of war at work, often more numerous than the German 
laborers. Like faithful slaves in the small farmyards or 
like gangs of convicts on the big estates, they carried on con- 
stantly the work of the absent German men and tilled Ger- 



" Exclamation about equal to "Good Heavens !" 
"Good evening. 



28 The Me;moirs of a Swine; or 

many's soil. With dull and hardened faces and uniforms 
stained and patched until Cossack was scarcely distinguish- 
able from chasseur, they drudged wearily on. 

I was arrested by an animated scene on the rye fields of 
a big estate. About thirty English, French, and Russian 
prisoners with a sprinkling of Polish girls were harvesting 
and threshing the rye. The sun was scorching hot, and their 
faces were black with dust and perspiration as they bent 
over the big, relentless machine. The sole German on the 
scene, a fat sentry, was sitting on a bench in the shade of a 
tree, sipping a glass of beer! 



CHAPTER XII 
I Encounter a Don S^ixote and Fall a Vidim to His Prowess 

The success which I seemed to have with my civiHan dis- 
guise gradually led me to assume a bolder attitude. I began 
to stroll nonchalantly along the main roads and even entered 
public houses and tobacco shops, buying cigars and bottles 
of beer to drink with my meals. It was this boldness which 
later caused my downfall. 

It was the afternoon of the third day and I was resting 
beside that fateful thoroughfare which runs from the vil- 
lage of Alt Pokrent to the town of Gadebusch, when one of 
those dazzling creatures which belonged to the mounted Ger- 
man Landpolizei road up. I had passed two of them during 
the day without attracting any special attention, so I hoped to 
be able to ignore this one and coolly lit a cigar, 

I was looking the other way, but I heard tremulously as 
he drew up his horse. I thought of flight, but a high bank 
stared me in the face. I glanced timidly around. He was 
curling his mustache and gazing at my feet. 

"Guten Abend," he began politely. 

I wished him a "Guten Abend." 

Privately I wished him many other things. 

"Are you — er — a traveller?" he began slowly. 

"Nein, I am only going as far as Gadebusch." 

"Where is your home?" 

"In Alt Pokrent," I answered promptly. 

Then he fired questions at me with bewildering rapidity. 

"Work there?" 

"Ja." 

"On the estate?" 

"Ja." 

"Since when ?" 

"Seven months ago." 

"Cutting house or horses?" 

"Horses." 



30 The; Me;moirs of a Swine or 

"Who owns the estate?" 

I paused a moment and then thought of a Kossebade 
name. 

"Herr Gottschalk." 

"Who's the inspector?" 

"Herr Warner." 

Then dramatically — "Where did you get those hoots?" 

I looked sheepishly at my tell-tale English boots — better 
than any to be had in Germany. 

"I bought them from " 

"J a, ja!" he broke in. "We know all about that. They're 
English boots and the English don't give boots to Germans. 
You told me a schon tale ! I know every man, woman and 
child in Alt Pokrent. Ypu're a Pole or else an escaped Rus- 
sian. Stand up! Stop smoking and take off your coat!" 

I obeyed and gave him Warner's cream-colored coat. Not 
in the pocket but in the lining, he found my v^allet with a 
collection of keepsakes, including a photo of a French poilu, 
a small American flag, and my English Certificate of At- 
testation. He was quite puzzled. 

"I don't know," he soliloquized, curling his mustache 
again. "You're something on the wrong side of the war. I 
am going to hold you for an escaped prisoner. It will be 
better for you to tell me the truth." 

Convinced of his determination, I told him my story, and 
he took it down in a little note-book. 

"I don't blame you, Junger," he said. "I know what it is 
to be homesick, but why don't you English come to your 
senses and stop fighting us?" 

It is my firm belief that the natives of Gadebusch had 
proclaimed a holiday in honor of my capture, for they were all 
standing out on the sidewalks when we entered, my humble 
self trudging along in front with my box of provisions and 
this gallant knight errant following, mounted on his black 
charger and armed to the teeth. Sword, spurs, revolvers, 
harness, and mustache were all polished to the highest de- 
gree. Indeed he reminded me of a sort of Don Quixote as 
he glared fiercely from side to side and replied majestically 



How It Fi;i,t to be; a Prisone;r o? War 31 

to the queries of the multitude in regard to my nationality 
with: " Bngldnder !" 

In short, his pose suggested that unanswerable quest-ion: 
"Why should Germany tremble?" 

I quite enjoyed the fun and grinned and stared brazenly 
back at the Gadebuschers. My gendarme was apparently bent 
on giving them all a good look at me, for he marched me up 
one street and down another until we had pretty well covered 
the town. 

We ended up at the town jail; a charming old structure, 
overlooking from the ground-floor, a pig-pen, and from the 
upper stories, the ramshackle roofs of sundry adjacent houses. 
The landlord thoughtfully relieved me of my burden of pro- 
visions as I entered and assigned me to a cell on the second 
floor. 



CHAPTER XIII 
My Entertainment at Gadebusch 

I hope I make an unchallenged assertion when I say that 
it was my first visit inside a civilian jail. It was, at all events, 
an experience which I do not wish to repeat. At first I wor- 
ried through a few hours examining the pictures and names 
carved on the walls. This exciting pastime exhausted, I di- 
vided the remaining time between singing and reading the 
old German Bible, which I found on the shelf, beginning with 
first chapter of Genesis. My singing, too, was restricted to 
a sotto voce the second day when a voice from outside the 
door shouted: 

"Nicht singe n! Nicht singen! Das geht nicht!" But I 
think this prohibition was due less to the rules and traditions 
of the institution than to the peculiar quality of my singing. 

Three times a day the old warden came in with a hunk of 
my bread, a slice of my bacon, and a cup of German coffee. 
It was a concession, he explained. I should have gotten only 
the coffee, but he had a son who had formerly worked in 
England ! It was lavish fare for this prison at any rate, for 
several times every day one of the other prisoners appeared 
at the little peep-hole in my door and begged : 

"Brot, Brot, Kamarad! Just a little crumb of Brot!" 

I was not a little curious to learn what manner of men 
my comrades in misery were. I was accordingly pleased the 
second night when I gained an opportunity of improving our 
acquaintance. I was slumbering peacefully on my downy 
couch when I felt myself being roughly shaken, and a voice: 

"Engldnder! Bngldnder!" 

It was my kind old warden. 

"Kom darunter — Blitzen!"^ 

I obeyed him, wondering, slipping on my trousers and 
going downstairs. I found my fellow prisoners to be two 
emaciated, but still professional looking gentlemen of the 
underworld. The hall clock was striking two. Having gone 

* Come down — lightning. 



How It FeIvT to be; a Prisoner op War 33 

through the usual social amenities, I sought to learn what 
object our gaoler had, beyond a general get-together meeting 
of the inmates, in disturbing our repose at this unwonted 
hour. 

"Ach," explained one of them, who was hunchbacked, 
"That's on account of the lightning!" 

We listened a few minutes until we heard a rumble of 
thunder. 

"Da!" he exclaimed, "you see it might strike the jail, and 
if we were all up in the cells we would die like rats !" 

It struck me as a novel, but, I agreed, doubtless quite a 
wise precaution. 

I learned further that we three were all the prisoners. The 
twenty-seven empty cells were a testimonial to the shattering 
effect of the war on "business." My companions were serv- 
ing a sentence of eight months for a robbery committed in 
the town. 

"We don't any of us belong to Mecklenburg," observed 
the hunchback pleasantly. "You see, my mate's an Austrian, 
I'm an East Prussian, and you're an Bngldnder, so we're sort 
of Kamaraden, aren't we?" 

"How jolly !" I thought. 

A pause ensued, allowing us to hear the whistle of a loco- 
motive and the distant rumbling of a train coming around 
the bend — which bend I will not say, for the sake of neu- 
trality. 

"Da," murmured the hunchback pointing toward the door, 
"There comes the old choo-choo !" 

"There?" objected the Austrian aghast. He pointed to- 
ward the clock, "That's the way the train comes in. You're 
forgetting yourself." 

"Was?" exclaimed the hunchback on the defensive. "I 
know where the track lies — I came in that way. It's just 
over there," pointing again at the door, "back of the pond." 

"Are you mad, Mench?"^ retorted the Austrian, pointing 
again at the clock, "Didn't you just hear it come in that way?" 

"Man. 



34 The; Memoirs oi'' a Swinb or 

Then followed one of the hottest little debates which I have 
ever heard. Both men grew into a frenzy, and only the ties 
of long friendship — constantly emphasized by the hunchback — 
prevented a resort to physical force. When the old warden 
came in half an hour later to tell us that danger was past, he 
found them stretched out together, haggling over a map of 
Gadebusch, drawn with string and bits of paper on the floor, 
a match stick representing the train. When I finally went up 
to my cell, I could still hear the disgusted voice of the hunch- 
back : 

"Aber,'^^ they don't run locomotives over rye fields, mein 
Lieber!"^^ 

It was about noon of the fifth day and I was finishing the 
Book of Isaiah, when the guard came to take me away. My 
warden did not forget to exact a fee of six marks — being the 
amount of my hotel bill for the five days, at a mark a day, ac- 
cording to Gadebusch reckoning. 



But. 

My dear fellow. 



CHAPTER XIV 
Kultur in a Train 

My new custodian was a fat, easy-going German, whom 
I found possessed some of the most radical of revolutionary 
ideas, but like a vast number of his comrades, too apathetic 
to trouble about carrying them out. We passed a little dis- 
play of wealth in the form of a smartly dressed gentleman, 
lady, child and poodle dog, strolling down the street. 

"They're the bandits !" said my guard, nudging me. "They 
eat the butter and eggs. We have to fight on dry bread and 
potatoes !" 

It was through him, too, that I first learned of Marshal 
Foch's great offensive, though it was too young as yet to 
bring to us prisoners the Great Hope. We were seated in 
the corner of a Gastwirtschaft talking over glasses of wine 
(for which he paid). The gramophone was playing: "Pupp- 
chen, du hist mein Augenschatz," or the German "Tipperary." 
He leaned over as if about to divulge a great secret. 

"Deutschland ist kaput !"^^ 

"Wasf" I asked, astonished at the admission, for the 
German newspapers had never been more optimistic than 
during the last month. 

"Deutschland ist kaput — kaput/' he repeated, "absolutely 
tot!''-^ The soldiers will turn against the bandits soon, for 
they are starving! The food is finished — absolutely finished. 
We have nichts — nichts — nichts!"^'^ and he put his thumbs 
together and jerked them quickly apart as though breaking 
a string. 

''Ja/" I agreed, "but the offensive?" for the papers were 
still gloating over the March success. 

"The offensive?" he went on, "Ach, the offensive is doing 
splendidly! They've captured fifty thousand prisoners! 



" Germany is beaten. 
" Dead. 
" Nothing. 



36 Tut Memoirs of a Swine; or 

They're going immer fester d'rauf!" and he beat himself on 
the chest in illustration. "Ach, Lieher, it'll soon be over 
now !" 

"I thought you'd captured one hundred and twenty thou- 
sand prisoners," I protested, puzzled. 

"Ach," exclaimed the guard, ''This isn't us, it's the 
French !" 

We had three hours to wait for our train, so he took me 
for a stroll around Gadebusch. We visited two ladies who 
had sons in English and French imprisonment. Both of 
them talked kindly to me and said that their sons wrote 
pleasing accounts of their treatment at the hands of the 
enemy. Later he took me to see another English prisoner in 
a private home. It was a joy to meet him and speak the 
language again, exchanging the stories of our varied adven- 
tures. He was "all right" there, enjoying the privileges of a 
favored slave in the home, valued by his master and loved by 
the children, for whom his broken German was a source of 
never-ending amusement. 

"Well, what are you going to do with him?" asked his 
master jocularly of my guard. 

"Don't you want another Bngldnder, Annie?" he asked, 
turning to the oldest girl. 

"J a, J a!" shouted both the children at once. 

Finding me agreeable, the old man and the guard im- 
mediately framed a letter to the Komandatur asking for my 
return to Gadebusch, when my punishment was over. 

We took a third class passage back to the camp at Par- 
chim. It was one of those long carriages with seats along 
the sides like a tram. A large crowd boarded the train at 
Gadebusch, but we got in among the first and managed to get 
seats. When the guard announced my nationality, I promptly 
became the cynosure of neighboring eyes and the object of 
innumerable questions, which he obligingly answered. 

At the next station we received another influx of pas- 
sengers, including a number of females, the scarcity of the, 
seats and the preoccupation of the gentlemen occupying them 
forcing the latter to stand. This gave me the opportunity 



How It F^lt to bi: a Prisoner op War VJ 

for a cheap triumph, lessened somewhat by the fact that there 
was no one beside myself to enjoy it. 

I arose gallantly and grasped a strap. 

"In England," I said loud enough to be heard throughout 
the carriage, "the men are glad enough to stand when there 
are ladies without seats !" 

I was the cynosure of piercing glares, but after an awk- 
ward pause, the men of the "superior" race began one by one 
to follow my example. 

I grinned inwardly, but my outward mien preserved the 
due humility of a Kriegsgefangener, and my eyes rested on 
the distant fields. 



CHAPTER XV 
"MadAlek" and "Good Paul" 

In the future annals of the war, one Acting Sergeant 
Major, Alexander Schroder, chef of III Kompanie, Parchim 
Gefangenenlager, better known to the Englishmen as '"Mad 
Alek," deserves a large but ignominious chapter. His ludi- 
crous air of blood-curdling bravado and his childish efforts to 
play the role of the Chocolate Soldier make him as laughable 
as his brutish cruelties made him an object of dread and hate 
to the thousands of prisoners who passed through his hands. 

We runaways, nine in number, were lined up in the Bilro 
to give up our valuables before entering the Arrest Barracks, 
when this creature swaggered in. He cut a dashing figure 
with the air of a champion in feats of arms — gained from 
combats with helpless prisoners — and a pair of polished 
spurs, a clanking sword and a fiercely up-turned mustacche 
completed the picture. Every prisoner and German sprang 
to attention. 

"What are these?" he demanded, pointing at us. 

"Runaways, sir?" ventured someone timidly. 

"Was? Was? Runaways?" Then began a thrilling 
oration, illustrated with the drawn sword, on the wretched- 
ness and depravity of us all and of all the foul races from 
whence we sprang. 

"This man," said the Unteroffisier humbly, pointing at a 
Russian, "has a complaint to make." 

With a trembling hand the Russian presented a letter 
signed by a German lady. She testified to the brutal treat- 
ment which the prisoner had suffered at the hands of his 
master, driving him to desperation and flight. 

"He beat you, did he?" sneered "Mad Alek," aroused to 
fury again. "I wouldn't have beaten you — not me ! I 
wouldn't have beaten you. I would have killed you !" and he 
went through the movement with his sword — "for the surly 
swine you are !" 

The right to demand a writ of Habeas Corpus was never 



How It Fe;IvT to be a Prisoner op War 39 

observed in a German prison camp. Offenders were thrown 
into the arrest barrack and began the Hungerstraf immedi- 
ately a complaint was lodged and trial awaited the casual con- 
venience of the officer of justice. 

The Hungerstraf I found to consist of confinement to a 
bedless and fireless barrack on a diet of pure and undiluted 
water. There were no other Englishmen there at the time, 
but I met a Belgian who kept me agreeable company. He 
had been four days at large, sleeping, as he said, in the hay- 
stacks, and making for Warnemiinde where he had hoped to 
board a Danish ship. He was a '14 prisoner and had at- 
tempted escape many times before. He seemed but a youth 
with the smooth face of a girl, but he knew all the tortures of 
German captivity at its worst. 

"I only want to get back and fight again," he said bit- 
terly. "I shall run away again and again until I succeed, or 
die — or peace is declared !" 

I was not long, however, in discovering some English 
neighbors. They were in the Work Barrack, which adjoined 
ours, and to which we would be conducted after forty-eight 
hours of fasting. 

I was lying down composing the tentative menu for One 
Grand Feast when I should be restored to freedom (as all 
men do when they are suffering from hunger), when I heard 
a cheery voice : 

"Any Bngldnder there?" 

"Any Bngldnder there?" it came again. 

"Yes, mate," I shouted, and followed the voice to a knot- 
hole in the wall, "K. R. R." 

"I'm Australian. How're you getting on? Say, turn your 
stove around, lad, and put your arm up to the chimney. I've 
some soup for you !" 

I made haste to do as I was told. 

"That's right. Jack, right around. Now, get this !" 

One chimney served for the stoves in both rooms, and by 
turning his own stove around, he was able to get his arm 
through and pass me a "bully" tin full of soup. It was 



40 The Me;moirs of a Swine or 

rotten stuff, and mixed with soot from the chimney but at the 
moment, it was better than the food of the gods. 

"Good Old Auzzie!" I said fervently. 

The next day I was carried before the officer of justice 
for trial. Finding that I spoke German he dismissed the in- 
terpreter and as usual in the case of prisoners with an ap- 
pearance of education, gave me a painstaking hearing. He 
wished not only to know the details of my flight, but what 
college I had attended, what studies I had pursued, and my 
general life story. 

"YIou have broken German martial law," he said gravely, 
in conclusion, "and must be punished, but I shall make it 
light. I give you seven days' arrest." 

"But what about the seven I have already done ?" I broke 
in. 

"Ach, that wasn't punishment," he explained, "that was 
hospitality! We couldn't leave you in the street, you know. 
Seven days arrest," he continued, "subject to reduction to 
two on report of good conduct. You will be sent back to the 
farm, and if you repeat this nonsense, I shall deal severely 
with you. On the other hand, you may be assured of good 
treatment until the end of the war — if you do your duty!" 

"My duty!" I exclaimed. "My duty, Herr Leutnant, 
would be to poison all the horses and set fire to the barns." 

He dismissed me laughing. 

"Das ist ja Krieg!"'^^ was his only comment. 

The proposed return to Gadebusch had evidently fallen 
through. I completed the Hungerstraf and afterward spent a 
few extra days in the work barrack before the guard came 
to take me back to the farm. The ration in the work barrack 
differed from that in the Hungerstraf in that they mixed 
a few carrots and potatoes with the water and called it 
soup. At all events it was calculated to give us the stamina 
necessary for work. 

We were marching out to work one afternoon when I was 



'That is indeed war. 



How It Felt to be a Prisoner oe War 41 

astonished to see one of the Frenchmen in the party run up 
to the guard and embrace him affectionately. 

"Cest toi, Pauin^ 

"Prangois! Mon vieux!"'^'^ 

But I recognized the guard and my astonishment was re- 
moved. It was indeed Paul. "Good Paul," as the Russians 
called him, a French-Alsatian, as well known to the habitues 
of the detention barracks as "Mad Alek" and as cordially 
loved as the latter was hated. He had contrived to stay in 
the prison camp since the outbreak of the war with the one 
object of smoothing the jagged edges of captivity for Allied 
prisoners. Neither daily abuses from his German comrades 
nor the constant risk of punishment for himself had deterred 
him. Many a man will remember him gratefully for a timely 
rescue from wretched, gnawing hunger, many a man owes 
his escape from a Komando, which would have been equiva- 
lent to a death sentence to him, and the despondent hearts 
which have been warmed by a friendly word and a handshake 
from Paul would be difficult to estimate. 

We had the job of loading peat on the trucks behind the 
camp. After loading one truck, Paul, having explored the 
scene for official eyes in the meantime, put Francois on 
sentry. 

"You look out for Unter off icier en," he directed, and 
turning to the rest of us, "Sit down on the peat baskets," he 
said. "Here are cigarettes for some of you. And don't any 
one work until I tell you !" 

"Is there anyone here," he asked presently, knowing our 
hunger, "who has friends in the cage with food?" 

"Ja," replied a Serbian and I. 

"Swap coats," he said, "in case any of the guards know 
you, and push that truck in the gate." 

I enjoyed a good tea with a sergeant of my regiment 
and we both returned with pockets bulging with food, which 
we divided with our comrades. 

We were all warmly grateful to Paul. 



"It is you, Paul. 
"Frangois, my Old Mate! 



42 The; Memoirs of a Swine; or 

"That's only my business here," he said, pleased. 

Whatever else may be done at the Peace Conference, I 
want the Allies to make a search of Germany and Alsace- 
Lorraine until they find one Paul Sanchez formerly attached 
to X Kompanie, Br sat s Battalion of the German Army — 
a little man with a blonde mustache, and a kindly face — and 
give him a Victoria Cross ! 



CHAPTER XVI 
The World Turned Upsidedown 

I will detain you little with my life on my second German 
farm, for I was sent to a different one. One coincidence 
should be noted, however, the lady for whom I now worked 
had a brother in England, captured near Cambrai in the same 
battle in which I fell into German hands ! This did not 
alter her attitude toward me, and my treatment here was 
worse than on the first farm. 

My sentence of seven days' arrest was to consist of seven 
consecutive Sundays of confinement in my room, in the attic, 
without food. What occasion I gave them for a report of good 
conduct I don't know, but the seven days were mercifully re- 
duced to two. Having a liberal supply of newspapers, to- 
bacco and food concealed in my room and the German serv- 
ing girl bravely passing me jugs of hot coffee by means of a 
string dropped from the window, I spent these two days quite 
pleasantly. 

It was during my detention that I learned of great suc- 
cess of our offensive and the probability of an early crash 
in Germany. From then on I read the newspapers with 
feverish interest whenever I could get them and made short 
translations on the backs of letters to be passed to other 
Englishmen in the village, and to the other villages. I grew 
restless and impatient as the rumors of capitulation and revo- 
lution became more insistent. I couldn't wait to read the 
papers. I longed to hear and see more of the great things 
which were happening in the world outside of our sleepy 
village. 

At last I contrived to get as far as Parchim on the ex- 
cuse of going for a 'bath. My sentry took me in the morning 
and brought me back in the afternoon. 

On the train the passengers were talking excitedly, but 
in subdued tones lest I should hear. A telegram was passed 
down the carriage. The gentleman on my right carefully 
passed it around me to the gentleman on my left. 



44 Thi; Memoirs oi^ a Swine; or 

"For God's sake let me see it, Kamarad!" I begged. 

"Nein. Bs ist verboten."^^ 

I studied the back of the paper as he held it up to read 
it and made out the word "Kaiser !" 

"Bitte!'^^ Bitte! Kamarad" I whispered, "is the Kaiser 
gone ?" 

"Not yet, but soon !" he replied. 

The Parchim Railway station was heavily guarded by the 
Badgeless troops of the Soldatenrat?^ In the camp I found 
the boys all merry and bright. The signing of the Armistice 
was daily expected. Repatriation by Christmas was conceived 
possible. 

I gathered all the news I could from the English chaps 
in the baths. A new regime had come in the camp. All the 
officers and all the most notorious of the old bullies had fled, 
leaving the Soldatenrat in control. 

"They found 'Mad Alek,' " he announced. 

"Found him?" I asked puzzled. 

"Yes, he beat it, you know. Disappeared when they heard 
Bulgaria had chucked it — took most of the garrison funds 
with him. They found him last week in a forest near the 
Danish frontier. He'd hung himself." 

I returned to my farm, resolved to submit to no more re- 
strictions, if indeed to work at all. I could not help taunting 
my sentry and all my favorite enemies in the village (who 
had so long jeered at me) over Germany's debacle. They 
had always regarded me as a "Smart Alek" and now I ex- 
asperated them delightfully. My relations with the sentry 
reached a climax one evening when he found me reading a 
newspaper by candle-light in the barn, 

"Das ist verhoten!" he commanded. 

"Who told you that, mein LieberT I asked, grinning con- 
descendingly. 

"Laugh at me will you? You swine!" He roared and 
before I was aware he struck me a blow in the chest that 



"It is forbidden. 

" Please. 

"" Council of soldiers. 



How It Fe;i,t to be a Prisoneir oi^ War 



45 



sent me reeling. Aghast and indignant I started back at him. 
Quick as a flash he had drawn his bayonet and he struck my 
arm threateningly with the flat of it. 

"Go to bed, you swine !" he ordered. 

Confronted by cold steel, there was nothing to do but to 
obey. I climbed slowly upstairs to my room, the German 
close on my heels, striking me constantly with the bayonet to 
hurry me. I went to bed with that wretched and maddening 
feeling of a man who has received blows which he cannot 
repay. I could not sleep. I got up and sat down and smoked 
until they unlocked my door in the morning. 




I resolved to go to Parchim the next day and seek redress 
from the revolutionaries. I would see if the justice of which 
they prated was a reality. I had to wait until dusk, for flight 
was still verboten, and I must escape unobserved. Setting out 
in my English uniform with my buttons brightly polished and 



46 The; Miemoirs of a Swine; or 

carrying my belongings in a neat little German haversack, I 
walked all the fifteen kilometers to Parchim, arriving in the 
Komandatur at about eight o'clock. I found all young boys 
from the new movement in charge, and they listened to my 
story with sympathetic indignation. I could not however, see 
the officer of justice until the day after tomorrow, and being 
a runaway, I must spend the remaining time in the deten- 
tion barrack. 

In this old house of misery I found every evidence of the 
"New Order." The Hungerstraf had been abolished. I was 
permitted to keep my cigarettes and tobacco. In the morn- 
ing the guard asked me for the address of a friend in the 
camp, and went out, returning with a cup of hot tea and a 
generous meal ! He repeated this performance three times a 
day. 

The new officer of justice was a studious looking young 
man from the Soldatenrat. The point of my having run away 
he magnanimously waived, and he carefully took down my 
charges against the sentry in a big book. He promised me 
complete satisfaction. 

"But when is this trial going to come off?" I asked, anx- 
ious to see it through myself. "I want to be there and testify 
against him to his face." 

"I am sorry," he apologized, "but this matter must be 
referred to the Soldatenrat. Your assailant will be arrested 
and the matter thoroughly investigated, but it will take time. 
See me in a fortnight and I will give you a good report of 
what has been done. 

"I hope to be in England in a fortnight," I said resignedly, 
"so I must trust you to see justice done." 



CHAPTER XVII 
"Auf Wiedersehen" 

A fortnight later found us in Warnemiinde, awaiting em- 
barkation. We were quartered in the luxurious Naval Fly- 
ing Corps Barracks, and living on the fat of the land, but 
chafing and impatient for the old "Blighty" ship. The natives 
of Warnemiinde were obsequiously polite to the Bngldnder 
now. I was returning one evening to the Flugplats when I 
was overtaken by a kindly-looking old lady. 

"Guten Abend, Junger," she said, smiling pleasantly. They 
say you're leaving tomorrow. I suppose you're glad you are 
are going home?" 

I told her I was. 

"My boys will never come again," she went on sadly, and 
she told me about her three sons which she had sacrificed 
for the Fatherland. 

"Now the nightmare is over," she sighed, "and Deutsch- 
land liegt unter!"^^ 

Finally, as she grasped my hand before turning down 
another street : 

"Tell them to be merciful on us," she said. "Goodbye, 
and hon voyage!" 

True enough the next day we marched down overloaded 
with kit and souvenirs to board the ship and bade a final 
"Auf Wiedersehen" to the Land of Captivity. Happy and ex- 
cited we greeted the ship as a Goddess of Liberty come to take 
us to a better land. Laughing and singing were the order 
and with the unfailing humor of Tommy Atkins as we 
mounted the gangplank arose the familiar strains of : 

"... For this is the end of a Perfect Day." 

The End 



"Germany lies under (Germany is vanquished). 





020^935 973 A 



